


My Precious Whore

by DabMyWetties



Series: halo fifteen [9]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BDSM, Boys In Love, College, HIV/AIDS, Holidays, Kinky, LGBTQ Themes, Language, M/M, Pride, Queer History, Series, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DabMyWetties/pseuds/DabMyWetties
Summary: “This is a fucking mess,” Mitch says miserably, the end of his cigarette glowing, dimming, and glowing again. “We’re both a fucking mess.”





	My Precious Whore

**Author's Note:**

> The second part of this chapter is rated R. Completely NSFW. Avert your eyes, innocent ones. Thanks to my beautiful Eliana for the beta read.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“Um. And why not?” Scott resists the urge to raise his voice. It’s late, people are sleeping, and this isn’t going well. Merry fucking Christmas. 

“Because, Scott,” his mother replies in that patented mom-specific exasperated whisper-yell. “You haven’t been dating that long. I understand that it’s been a fun adventure staying with him for the last week and a half, but I just think it’s too early in a relationship to basically live together, even if it’s just for a month! It’s not appropriate!” 

A fun adventure? _ Appropriate _ ? “Excuse me? You do realize that, first of all, it’s not the 1970s anymore and second of all, we can’t exactly wait until marriage to make anything  _ appropriate _ . You know that, right?” 

“Sweetheart,” Connie says, exasperated. “I mean that people put on their best face early in a relationship. I adore Mitch, I really do, but you guys have been dating for, what, three months? You’re both still on your best behavior. You haven’t had time to learn each other’s quirks and bad habits. You get all of that at once if you don’t get to know each other before you shack up.” She sighs. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.” 

And even though everything she’s saying seems to come from a place of caring, Scott is irritated. Actually, irritated isn’t quite right - he’s pissed off. Maybe it’s because of the disastrous news about Roy he got last night. Maybe it’s because it’s 1:30 on Christmas morning and he knows tomorrow - well, technically today, but whatever - is going to be uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because he feels like he got tricked into this conversation when his mom asked him to join her for cookies and cocoa after Mitch turned in early, exhausted from an emotional day and his hours of dancing while Scott poured back way too many vodka tonics at the club. 

Without thinking, Scott waves his hand dismissively. “I think if we managed to make it like six weeks in a dorm room without killing each other, three weeks in an apartment will be just fine.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth Scott realizes his mistake. Shit. She didn’t know about that.

“Six weeks WHERE?” Connie bellows. 

“Nowhere,” he mutters. “You’re gonna wake the whole house.” 

“Scott. Richard. Hoying. Explain. Six weeks in  _ your  _ dorm room? What were you thinking?” 

Patience, civility, and Christmas cheer thoroughly exhausted, Scott doesn’t bother to keep his voice low. “Yes,” he practically hisses the word. “My dorm. I wasn’t about to let him live on the streets to get raped or murdered after he got kicked out. Do you have any fucking idea what happens to homeless gay kids, mom? Because I’ve met a few and I can tell you all about it. So, yes, he spent six weeks with me so he could finish his fucking classes and, y’know, be alive.”

Connie opens her mouth to speak but Scott barrels on. “I am twenty years old. I can make my own fucking decisions. Maybe I don’t have a lot of life experience, but I’m trying to do the right thing and to be a good person. Spending a few weeks with my boyfriend so I can be closer to work is  _ not  _ the most stressful thing I’ve had to fucking deal with lately so...thanks for the concern but it’s really not your business.” 

“Watch your language! Just because you’re not a kid doesn’t mean you’re not  _ my  _ kid, and -”

There’s a creak and the sound of movement upstairs. Scott’s pretty sure it’s Mitch and he mentally kicks himself for staying up, for getting dragged into an argument, for all of it. He stands from the kitchen table and, after a pause, leans down to kiss the top of his mom’s head. It’s hard to get a read on her right now. She’s fallen silent and her jaw is clenched, but she does reach up to stroke his hair. “G’night, mom. I’m going to bed.” 

Christmas morning is tense. Connie had pulled Scott aside first thing to quietly apologize, which was nice, but she had to go on to repeat that she’s “ _ just concerned for him is all”  _ and that qualifier still has him feeling on edge. 

Unfortunately Mitch woke up to the raised voices last night and had heard the tail end of the argument. He cried himself back to sleep in Scott’s arms, whimpering how guilty he felt for causing so many problems. No amount of reassurance had been enough so Scott settled for whispering repeated  _ I love you _ s until they both fell asleep. Now Mitch is so skittish that it seems like he might bolt if the wind blows too hard, which it is because it’s damn near a blizzard outside and that is literally the only thing keeping Scott from tossing their bags in the car and driving them both back home.

Well. 

To Mitch’s home. But still. It’s tempting. 

And then there’s the sadness that comes in waves every time he thinks about Roy, and he wonders how he’s going to keep it together once he and Greg are here in a few hours for dinner. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. It’s Christmas. It isn’t supposed to be like this. 

Scott manages to force a neutral - maybe even convincingly cheerful at points - expression when his uncles arrive and maintains the charade for a good 15 minutes or so. Unfortunately he can’t hide the crushing despair when that suddenly overtakes him and it has to be painfully obvious because Mitch is pulling him out to the garage before the tears turn into outright sobs. 

“This is a fucking mess,” Mitch says miserably, the end of his cigarette glowing, dimming, and glowing again. “We’re both a fucking mess.” 

Scott frantically wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “I know,” he gasps. “Shit, I can’t  _ do  _ this. I don’t think I can do this. D’you think the baby Jesus would be offended if I raided my parents’ liquor cabinet on his birthday?” 

Mitch snorts and wipes at his own eyes. 

“Seriously, maybe -” a gentle tap at the door cuts Scott off and before either can respond Roy slips into the garage. 

“How’s everyone’s Christmas so far?” Roy asks wryly. When they both groan in response, he just grins. “Connie’s inside having some sort of meltdown at Greg over a mother-son argument while the rest of the family pretends not to notice. Scotty, you ran out crying. Mitch, you look like you’d rather be anywhere but here and I have  _ so  _ been in those shoes, honey. This is a lot more exciting than last year. Serious argument or just normal stuff?” 

It takes a second for Scott to realize Roy meant the last question for him. “Stupid shit,” he says. “She got wound up because I’m staying with Mitch over break to be closer to work. Said it wasn’t appropriate for whatever reason.” 

“She’s a mom. That’s her job,” Roy punctuates his statement with an eyeroll. “I promised to check on you guys so I could sneak out for a smoke.” He looks hopefully at Mitch who quickly shakes a cigarette out of his pack and passes it over. 

“I thought you quit years ago,” is all Scott can think to say right now. The last, what, 48 hours of his life feels very surreal. 

With a content smile, Roy lights the cigarette and takes a deep drag. “I did. Still have a few every now and then. Not like they’ll kill me.” 

For a moment all Scott can hear is his heart thudding in his chest. “Oh,” he mumbles as the tears make a triumphant return. No, he definitely doesn’t think he can do this today. 

“Oh, c’mon now,” Roy says quietly. “It sucks. Believe me, I know, but moping about it doesn’t help anything. It looks like the new drugs I’m trialing will make it to market because they  _ work _ , and that means chances are pretty good you’ll have to put up with me for a while yet. I’m not anywhere close to dead. You don’t need to grieve.” 

Scott sniffles and tries to get himself under control. Mitch’s hand resting at the small of his back helps. “It’s just - it’s a lot, y’know?” 

“I know,” Roy leans down to stub out his cigarette on the concrete of the garage floor. “And I hate that you found out the way you did, but I need you to do me a favor. Slap on your fakest, most fabulous smile and get through today. Now is not the time to lose your shit. Give me a call after the holidays and we’ll get coffee and cry and talk it all out then, okay? But today you need to hold it together. Can you?” 

A few deep breaths and a long hug from Mitch later, Scott is ready to try his damnedest. 

***

“...if you’re confused or uncomfortable and need to pause to talk?” Mitch asks for the tenth time. 

“Budweiser,” Scott replies.

“And if things are too fucked up for you and you need a hard stop? What do you say?” Mitch prompts him.  

“Tequila. You’re making me nervous again.” Scott is beginning to second guess their New Year’s Eve plans. Just a little, though. Mitch has been looking forward to this for months and, complete unfamiliarity aside, it all sounds fascinating and, frankly, kinda hot.  

“And you’re making me uncomfortable,” Kirstie pipes up from the driver’s seat. By this point Scott’s used to the banter she has with Mitch and he can tell she’s not serious. 

Mitch leans forward and props his chin on the passenger seat next to Scott’s shoulder. “If you’re uncomfortable now, wait ‘til you see my outfit!” he exclaims brightly.

Yes, Mitch’s mysterious outfit. Scott was taken aback earlier when Mitch emerged from the bathroom - where he’d locked himself for 45 minutes getting ready - wearing a huge hooded sweatshirt and baggy cargo pants. For someone who’s always taken such care in dressing the part when going out, Scott could not understand why he was wearing  _ that  _ to what Mitch had long been describing as the biggest party of the year. 

Hey, how was he supposed to know the real outfit was underneath the sweatshirt? And, sure, it’s snowy and cold as shit outside so warm clothes make sense, but Mitch has been absolutely cagey about his appearance, to the degree that he won’t even take his hood down. Scott can’t wait to see what’s happening underneath. 

Kirstie huffs a sigh and signals to turn left down a nondescript gravel driveway. “Nothing you do surprises me anymore, dude,” she mutters. They’re in an industrial area full of factories and warehouses; it looks like the last place one should expect to find a club but as they pull up to a tall chain link fence it’s obvious this is the spot. A security guard at the gate checks the cards Kirstie hands through the window and jots a few things on his clipboard before waving them to drive ahead into the parking lot beyond the fence. The muted thumping of bass-heavy music filters in with the last cold blast of air as the window is rolled up and Scott takes a moment to look at what appears to be nearly a hundred cars already parked there. People in a wide array of dress are walking through the lot and towards the enormous warehouse adjacent. He sees a few drag queens, a lot of leather, a comforting amount of goth gear, and a surprising number of people in everyday street clothes. 

Before he can get too nervous Kirstie has handed back their membership cards and they’re striding across the parking lot - how she can stride in heels like that without falling will forever remain a mystery to Scott - and into the warmth and noise of the club’s foyer. It’s drab and unassuming, looking just like he’d expected the entrance to a club in an old warehouse to look. The line to check in is short and moving quickly; Scott readies his membership card as they reach the front. Mitch hands his card over first and holds out his right arm, saying “Red.” The girl at the desk checks the card and wraps a red wristband on Mitch’s proffered limb. “Red for him too,” Mitch says, pulling Scott forward a little. Scott repeats exactly what he’d seen Mitch do, gets his wristband, and they step aside to wait for Kirstie to get her black and green wristband before walking through the next doorway. 

“What’s with the red and green?” Scott asks. The music is getting louder as they head down a short hallway towards another room. 

“Quick way to show if you’re open to being approached or not,” Mitch replies. “Over 21s get solid bands, unders get a black one with a stripe.” He grins. It’s his first outing with his new fake ID and he’s been pretty vocal about using the hell out of it tonight. “Up here is coat check, then we can go have fun. Ready?”

Scott’s not sure that he is ready. He doesn’t have any fetishes, yet here he is at what is apparently the biggest fetish ball in a six-county area. Why is it even called a fetish ball? That makes him think of Cinderella yet somehow he doubts pumpkins and glass slippers will be involved. Mitch had explained some of what he was about to see but it all sounded a little...exaggerated? Yeah, exaggerated. He’s not naïve. He knows people get up to all sorts of crazy shit in the bedroom, but there’s only so much that can be done in a club, in public. 

Right? 

But ready or not, he’s following Mitch into the coat check area. The large room is dimly lit and  full of people taking off various articles of clothing. Three people are sitting behind a table set in front of a bank of lockers. Short, orderly lines are arranged in front of the table and the coat-checkers quickly hold out a clear plastic bag for each clubgoer to place their items in before providing another wristband. Scott registers fast flashes of people walking away from the table - a woman in a studded black leather bikini, a guy in jeans and a polo shirt, someone being led on a leash, a couple wearing nothing but fishnet and electrical tape, and he turns to look at Mitch and Mitch is just...taking his pants off. Right there, just shimmying out of his cargo pants, leaving his combat boots in place, his bare legs visible under the long sweatshirt. 

And then the sweatshirt comes off. 

_ What in the holy hell _ ? Scott’s brain stutters and misfires and it seems to take a long time for coherent thoughts to form. He cannot figure out what Mitch is...wearing? Is that a shirt or - no, that’s not a shirt. It looks like he’s poured something black across his shoulders and let it drip down his bare chest and back. It’s like paint, kinda, but different. And while it’d be technically accurate to call the scrap of material tenaciously clinging to his hips shorts - barely - it would be laughable to do so. Scott could wear them as a shoe. A leather shoe. 

Jesus. 

Mitch gives a little twirl, the light glinting off the o-ring collar around his neck. “You like?” he asks Scott playfully. “Liquid latex. Always wanted to try this look.” He gestures at his chest to indicate the drippy black stuff.

And here Scott thought he was being daring dressed in a black tank and his brand new leather pants. 

“He likes. He’s drooling,” Kirstie says from somewhere to Scott’s left. She’s smirking. Scott can hear it in her voice but he can’t seem to look away from Mitch to verify that auditory observation. “I’m going in, see you boys around!” 

It isn’t until Mitch sashays up to the table to drop off his clothes and Scott’s sweatshirt that some semblance of coherence returns. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t uncomfortable. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn such tight pants. 

“C’mon,” Mitch takes his hand a moment later and pulls Scott towards the doorway leading to the club itself. Passing through is like passing into another world. 

It’s so big that Scott can’t really see the opposite side of the space. A bar, packed three deep, lines the back of the cavernous room to his left and to his right a large dance floor and stage take up the bulk of the front. There are two large cages at either end of the stage with people dancing in them. It’s hard to judge numbers but it looks like there are easily a couple hundred people here and Scott was certainly not expecting to see what he’s seeing as Mitch pulls him towards the bar. Mitch’s shorts are downright conservative in comparison to a lot of the outfits he passes. He counts six separate guys wearing nothing but jockstraps, just acting all casual as though they aren’t effectively naked. There are bare tits and asses  _ everywhere  _ and more leather contraptions in more configurations than he thought possible. 

And there’s two - no, three - variations of the gimp suit waiting to order drinks. 

He’s so wrapped up in taking it all in that Scott doesn’t even realize Mitch has managed to order until he feels a plastic cup pressed into his hand. He gulps half of the drink immediately, trying to decipher a lot of things he doesn’t really understand. Now that they’ve moved further into the club, Scott can see the far side of the space more easily. There’s a large metal staircase leading up to what’s looks like a big loft area that acts as a sort of divider between the stage-dancefloor section and the more dimly lit lounge adjacent. A lot of the lounge is taken up by standard tables and chairs, but scattered amongst are what he can only think of as activity stations. 

Nearest to where they’re standing, maybe fifteen feet away, a black reclining chair that vaguely reminds Scott of the dentist is occupied by a topless woman who appears to be in the process of having dozens of needles carefully pierced through the skin of her breasts, making a starburst pattern on each. At first Scott couldn’t figure out what was happening, but the heavily pierced and tattooed dude standing over the chair is making enough of a show about each needle that he’s lifting from a small metal table next to him that it only takes a minute to realize that, yes, he’s really jamming needles into someone. 

Mitch tugs on his hand and Scott instinctively angles his head down. “Play piercing,” he says loudly into Scott’s ear, tilting his head towards the scene in front of them. “You look shell-shocked. Ready to see more?” 

Scott can only nod, already scanning the wild cacophony of bodies and lust ahead as Mitch sort of steers him around the rest of the ground level. “Shibari and suspension,” Mitch explains as they approach the bewildering spectacle of two people tied with intricate knotwork hanging suspended from contraptions attached to the rafters. The next station needs no real commentary but Mitch provides one anyway. “Spanking, and over there is a St. Andrew’s cross.” 

Looking in the direction of  _ over there _ , Scott isn’t initially sure what that particular device is all about. At a glance it’s just a big X made of wood and metal, and since it isn’t being used at the moment it’s not clear what one does with it. Part of the mystery is revealed as a guy is led crawling on all fours to the cross on a leash. With a few practiced moves, the leashed guy is strapped, spread-eagled and back exposed, to the X by the large, muscular, leather-clad gentleman Scott assumes is his partner. Even before the bigger guy removes some sort of whip dangling from his belt, it’s pretty clear the purpose of this cross thing. 

Mitch had given him a heads-up about people getting whipped here. Scott had assumed it would be something playful. 

It’s not. 

Oh, sure, it seems to start off that way, but then he can hear the dull thuds and sharp thwacks of leather meeting flesh clearly over the music. In spite of the fact that he knows, intellectually speaking, that the dude currently writhing on that cross is enjoying himself, Scott can’t help the horror bubbling up. Seriously, that cannot feel good. And how isn’t the bigger dude afraid of, like, really injuring him? Shit. Okay, people have their kinks. Everything here is consensual and everyone wants to do what they’re doing. He shouldn’t judge. 

But,  _ shit _ , angry purple welts are rising all over that guy’s back and he’s feeling so viscerally uncomfortable right now that Scott turns to Mitch, ready to use one of his safewords. 

And he can only blink, because Mitch is watching the same scene and Scott sure does recognize the expression on his face. He’s not disturbed in the least. He looks totally into it. Like,  _ really  _ into it. 

This is...this is all just a bit too much, too confusing and new and odd. Hoping he’s doing the right thing, Scott leans down to mutter “Budweiser” into Mitch’s ear. 

Almost like he’d been slapped, Mitch jerks his head towards the voice. He examines Scott’s face for a couple seconds and then Scott is practically being dragged through the crowd back towards where they’d come in. He can’t do much but stumble along for the ride. 

In the much quieter coat-check room, they aren’t the only ones taking a break. A few other couples or small groups are huddled together speaking softly. Mitch pulls him to a spot away from the others, crowding him against the wall and standing close so their voices don’t carry. “Talk to me,” he says, still holding Scott’s hand firmly. 

Suddenly Scott is not at all sure what to say. “It’s...I just…” he stammers. 

“Do you need to leave? It’s okay if you do,” Mitch says as Scott stares helplessly at him. “We can go.” 

_ Does _ he need to leave? On some level he wants to flee. He wants to go back to the familiar and comfortable. A bit of examining his feelings, though, and Scott figures he probably doesn’t need, or even want, to actually leave. Being completely out of his comfort zone isn’t, y’know,  _ comfortable  _ but it isn’t bad. It’s worked out well for him before - really well. “I wasn’t...I didn’t think it would be that intense,” he says slowly. “And I just got kinda overwhelmed.” 

“Do you want to head home?” Mitch is looking at him earnestly. 

Scott shakes his head. “No. Just a break and maybe a couple more drinks.”

The relief is evident on Mitch’s face, though he’s still studying Scott. “Why don’t we get another drink and check out the dance floor, then see how you’re feeling afterwards. Okay?”  

That actually sounds perfect. Scott nods, but he needs to clarify one point before they return to the chaos. He lowers his voice even more. “You...like that kinda stuff? The whips and all?” 

Mitch’s guard visibly goes up and he takes what feels like a long time to answer. “...Sometimes?” he finally drawls hesitantly. 

“Doing the hitting? Or…?” Scott isn’t sure which answer is the less-terrifying option.

“Getting hit. Flogged,” Mitch drops his eyes as he says it. “Like I said, sometimes.” 

Wow. Okay. Um, that is...something. “Doesn’t it  _ hurt _ ?” Scott asks before he can stop himself. “And, like, why did I not know this?” 

He still isn’t meeting Scott’s eyes, but he does smile a little. “It doesn’t hurt in a bad way.”

Isn’t that the only way things hurt? “That doesn’t make sense. How does something hurt in a good way?”

Now Mitch does meet his eyes, and his smile widens before he rises on his tiptoes so his mouth is against Scott’s ear. “You like it when I dig my nails into your ass, don’t you? I mean, it sounded like you were enjoying it last night.” 

Scott wants to tell him he’s made a very valid point, but the blood has left his brain and coming up with words isn’t the only thing hard at the moment as he mentally replays exactly what Mitch is talking about. 

“And you didn’t know because you’re sweet and innocent and I didn’t want to freak you out, preppy boy,” Mitch continues. “It’s not, like, something I need all the time. Figured it’d come up when it came up. Shall we drink?” 

Yes, Scott would like that drink very much. He nods mutely, still trying to digest this new information while exerting a tremendous amount of willpower to convince his dick to chill the fuck out for like ten minutes. It’s not exactly easy with the memory of Mitch’s legs wound around his waist searing itself into his frontal lobe. 

At the bar, they both throw back shots of tequila before carrying their vodka tonics through the crowd and towards the dance floor. The familiarity of dancing is soothing, though it is slightly jarring to move to something other than broody goth or stompy industrial music. Scott’s so used to Ministry at this point that Deee-Lite sounds almost comical. That doesn’t stop either of them, and as the DJ moves through songs both familiar and completely alien they dance, and dance, and pause to get another round of drinks, and then some more drinks in there somewhere, and they dance some more. 

One song fades and the electronic clangs and beeps of a new one fade in; the DJ’s voice booms through the speakers to let everyone know there’s half an hour until the new year. Scott feels a tug on his arm and looks down to see Mitch gesturing towards the vicinity of the coat-check area. He nods and and follows. 

“How you feeling?” Mitch asks softly once they’re situated. 

The most accurate answer to that is ‘blissfully drunk,’ but Scott knows that isn’t what the question means. He’s momentarily distracted by his hand resting on Mitch’s hip, on the way it makes the already-lithe frame seem even more fragile. Fuck, he wishes they weren’t in public right now. “Good. Better,” he mutters thickly. He’s exactly at the right stage of inebriation, he thinks - brain slightly fuzzy, zero worries, face and fingers tingling. “You are...so fucking hot. You know that, right?” 

Mitch grins. “Damn right I am, but I’m trying to make sure you’re okay being in this club right now. Anything still bothering you? Any questions? Anything?” 

He is okay being in this club right now. Yes, definitely okay. “I wanna be here. With you. I am keeping an open mind and you’re good at taking care of me, so everything is great.” It isn’t the most eloquent he’s ever been, but he keeps getting distracted and handsy and also he’s pretty drunk. “I think we’re supposed’ta kiss soon.”   

“We don’t have to wait until midnight, y’know,” Mitch is still grinning at him. “But if you want some of the free champagne we need to get back in there - as long as you’re still comfortable.” 

Free alcohol is a powerful motivator. “‘Kay! But, because of the...thing… y’know, the thing where what you’re doing at midnight on New Years means what you’ll do all year, that thing. We  _ have  _ to, like, make out. At midnight. Okay? We should do that.” 

“You are a drunk mess.” 

“A drunk and horny mess!” Scott corrects him with some righteous indignation. 

Back in the club proper, plastic flutes of cheap champagne are being passed around seemingly without rhyme or reason. Scott somehow manages to get himself a glass for each hand which is really nice and he gulps one down as the DJ announces that it’s one minute until midnight. The second glass follows the first and the countdown from ten begins. Mitch is in his arms, smiling a million watts up at him, and this, right now, is perfect. Everything is perfect. The cheers of “Happy New Year” around them and the swelling of that damn song no one knows the words to over the speakers and Mitch crushed up against him, fingers tangled in his hair as they kiss in 1996 first with celebration and then with desperation - everything is perfect. As Scott pulls him closer, lifts him off his feet because they  _ can’t be  _ any closer, his mind flashes back to the night he met Mitch and how it changed everything. 

They have to come up for air at some point, and when they do Mitch looks up at him in alarm. “Why are you  _ crying _ ?” he shouts into Scott’s ear over the din of conversation around them. 

Yeah, that. Now he’s a drunk, horny, crying mess. “Because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m just so  _ happy  _ and really emotional!” Scott wails back, fully aware that he’s being ridiculous.

“Okay, likewise, but swear to god if you make me cry and ruin my eyeliner...” Mitch reaches up and cups Scott’s face, gently wiping the tears from his eyes with his thumbs. “I think you might need to sober up a little, preppy boy.” 

That is probably a good idea, actually. The champagne may have been overkill because Scott knows he won’t make it another four hours at this rate. The DJ announces the lineup of performances scheduled for the next couple hours and plays some comparatively quiet music as people scurry about getting the stage set up. Scott captures Mitch’s hand, still resting on his cheek, and kisses his palm. 

“Feeling up to exploring the second floor?” Mitch asks after a moment. “Or d’you wanna stay down here for the drag show?” 

Scott’s seen drag shows before, and the alcohol coursing through his veins makes him feel pretty confident he’s ready to see more debauchery and kink. The shock of earlier has completely worn off. He can totally handle anything. “Let’s go upstairs.” 

Mitch swipes at his cheek once more, searching for any remaining tears, and reaches up to smooth Scott’s hair. “Shit’s a little more -  _ intense  _ \- up there. Remember your safewords and use them if you need to. Okay?”  

The second floor loft area is almost entirely devoted to a range of activity stations. The first thing that catches Scott’s eye is a large assembly of some sort in the middle of the room. It’s a...maybe a makeshift room of some sort? Or a kind of box? There are four sides, each about eight feet tall and eight feet across. The sides are painted black and have holes the width of an arm cut out at varying heights. A handful of people are gathered around, looking or reaching through some of the openings. He drifts closer to it, curious. 

“Grope box,” Mitch informs him as they approach. 

“A... _ what _ ?”

“It’s a huge grope box. Take a peek.” Mitch nudges him to one side of the structure and Scott sees a red stripe painted horizontally across the plywood at eye level. He steps up to one of the cutouts at an appropriate height.

There’s an immediate urge to avert his eyes, and he can’t stop himself from instinctively looking away. He can hear Mitch giggle. 

"Move over, lemme see,” Mitch says, inserting his body in front of Scott. “Jesus, the look on your face!” He stands on his tiptoes to peer through the opening Scott just looked away from. 

Scott can’t help but look back inside. “What the fuck?” he whispers, glad for more than just ease of communication that Mitch’s back is pressed right up against him. 

Mitch turns his head slightly. “This is pretty standard, I thought something really interesting was happening! Red line on this side means no touching. It’s just a peepshow. You can reach in and, y’know,  _ grope  _ from the other sides. Wanna move to a touchy side?” 

“No!” Scott whispers harshly. There’s like...there’s a blowjob happening right there, inside this box. Dude’s just sitting on a chair getting his dick sucked. 

“Thank god,” Mitch replies, turning his attention back to the view. 

“How can they do this in public??” Scott whispers. On the one hand this is definitely something he’s been conditioned to look away from. It’s...private. But on the other hand, holy fuck this is like live action porn. Sure, it’s a straight blowjob, but he’s only ever been present for blowjobs he’s been directly involved in and...wow. There it is, happening right in front of him. 

“It’s technically not in public. This is a private event, which is why we had to buy a quote-unquote membership card instead of a ticket.”

Several people, men and women, all completely naked, are posing near the grope holes on the far side of the structure. From his vantage point, all Scott can see are anonymous hands reaching in to stroke a cock or pinch a nipple before withdrawing and being replaced by other hands. “Wow,” he mutters. 

Mitch wiggles against him. “Someone’s a budding voyeur, I see. Or feel, actually.”

“Hush,” Scott whispers. For good measure, he grinds against Mitch, pinning him against the outside of the box. The jolt of the unexpected when he’d first looked through this peephole had done wonders to clear some of the drunken cobwebs from his brain, though apparently not enough to remember to act appropriately in a crowd of people. 

Then again, that’s not really inappropriate here, is it?

Scott has the sudden mental image of himself sitting in that chair in the box, with Mitch kneeling on the floor in front of him, with dozens of eyes peering in at them. The hand resting on Mitch’s hip tightens involuntarily, fingertips pressing hard against the ridge of his hipbone, and he ducks his head to exhale noisily against the side of Mitch’s neck. . 

“Oh, you fucking  _ tease _ ,” Mitch grumbles. “Ease up, let’s go look around some more. These shorts were too expensive to cum in.”

“Fuck,” Scott says breathlessly. “Fine, but when we get home…” 

After a few deep breaths and some adjustments, Mitch guides Scott around to some of the other stations. There’s another St. Andrew’s cross in rather vigorous use - Scott is oddly relieved that he doesn’t quite feel the same discomfort as he did before - and two areas involving melted wax being dripped onto people in intricate patterns. 

As they move past one of the wax areas, Scott feels a firm tap on his shoulder. He jerks his head around to see an extremely tall woman smiling pleasantly at him and he stops in his tracks, causing Mitch to stumble. He hears Mitch squeal off to the side. 

“Would you mind if I spoke with your boy?” the woman asks Scott politely, holding a finger up in a  _ wait  _ gesture in Mitch’s direction. 

What the hell? His boy? Mitch? “I…wait, what?” 

Mitch is giggling and he bounces forward to throw his arms around the woman. “He’s not my Dom, Cleo,” Mitch says, and the term rings a bell for Scott. He’s heard that before. “He’s my very sweet and gentle boyfriend and I’ll introduce you in a minute but when the  _ fuck  _ did you get back??” 

Scott watches the exchange. The woman -  _ Cleo  _ \- is taller than he is. She’s got to be at least 6-foot-6 and, sure, she’s got some really high heels on those boots but damn is she tall. The word  _ statuesque  _ comes to mind. From the fairly short and very excited conversation she and Mitch are having, she just back back from Sweden a few weeks ago, everything went great and she’s fully recovered, and she feels amazing. 

“Cleo, this is Scott,” Mitch loops his arm through Scott’s. “And this is Cleo, but call her Mistress Cleopatra while we’re here.” 

Scott takes the hand Cleo offers him and, hoping he’s doing this right, kisses the back of it. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” she greets him, smiling. “Mitchy and I go way back. I’ve been overseas for the last few months and this is a lovely surprise to come home to.” 

“Were you on vacation?” Scott asks, not sure what else to say. 

She smiles. “No, not really. I was there to get my new vagina installed.” 

***

“I need you to be sure about this,” Mitch is looking at him intently. 

Scott isn’t sure what exactly he  _ can  _ be sure about. This isn’t his decision. “I mean, it’s up to you. You know I support you.” 

“Yeah, but I care about what you think and how you’re feeling.” 

He takes a sip of his Dr. Pepper, wishing it were something stronger. “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Scott finally says. 

It’s kind of stomach-churning as he watches Mitch walk away from him and up to the wooden frame where Cleo - Mistress Cleopatra - is waiting. Its use is fairly obvious - it’s built in the shape of a large doorway, except a set of leather cuffs at the end of two lengths of chain are hanging from the crossbar. He can hear his heart thudding in his ears as he watches his sweet Mitch get blindfolded, then his wrists fastened into the cuffs, then finally, with a few adjustments to the chains, he’s suspended there with barely enough give for his feet to rest steadily on the floor. 

Mitch wants to, as he called it, “scene.” He trusts Cleo; she’s one of the few he’s trusted to do this for him, he explained to Scott. And this is apparently separate from sex in a way that Scott doesn’t fully understand. This whole night has been a crash course on all sorts of wild things that people get off on, yet sometimes it isn’t about the sex at all somehow. It’s confusing, and Scott is still just this side of tipsy so he’s not at his sharpest, but if this makes his boy happy he’s going to be okay with it. 

“Scott, honey,” Cleo walks up, guiding a pleasant-looking middle aged man by the arm with her. “I’m about to start. This is Robby. He’s one of my boys and he’ll be sitting near you in case you have any questions, okay?” 

Sitting idly by is honestly one of the hardest things Scott’s ever done, and he’s been through some shit recently. At first he’s a little annoyed at having Robby the Kinky Tour Guide along for the ride with him, but after the first thirty seconds he’s glad someone is there to explain things to him. Scott now knows that the delicate looking whip Cleo begins with is a cat o nine tails that is just a little bit stingy but hardly even that, and it’s used for warming up. The new information is a buffer to the fact that his fucking  _ boyfriend  _ is over there being  _ whipped _ .

When Cleo pauses, Robby provides more commentary. “She’s checking in with him, oh, and now she’s getting a heavy flogger. This is going to sound pretty intense.” 

And it does. It looks intense too. Mitch had been fairly passive with the first flogger, looking almost relaxed in his chains, and it starts out that way with this one. After a few increasingly loud lashes, though, the chains clank as Mitch writhes in them.

Scott has the urge to run over there and protectively throw his body in front of the flogger and truly the only thing stopping him are the  _ sounds  _ Mitch is making. They’re not....sexual. Not really. They’re oddly pleasurable. Each strike with the flogger is met with what Scott can only describe as a happy grunt. He makes sounds like that when Scott is fucking him hard. Those are nice sounds. 

This is what he meant about things not hurting in a bad way, huh?

Robby keeps up the periodic commentary and when Scott feels horror bubbling up as a few purple welts appear on Mitch’s back Robby’s there to reassure him. It helps some, but Scott is growing more uncomfortable and extremely restless. He doesn’t even have words for what’s going on in his head right now. This is awful. And fascinating. And Mitch is kind of flopping like a fish in those chains as the blows continue unabated and as he twists Scott can see his jaw clenched and the hint of a smile. 

Cleo pauses in her assault. She speaks quietly to Mitch and he murmurs a response Scott can’t hear. Maybe this is finally over. Maybe that was the safeword. “Tell me,” Cleo’s voice carries clearly the dozen feet to Scott’s ears, and then he can clearly hear Mitch’s reply. 

“ _ More _ .”

She looks Mitch over carefully with a practiced eye before stepping away to reach for a bottle of water. 

Scott’s on his feet before he can think too much about it. 

“Wait,” he calls to Cleo. “Stop.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Gender confirmation surgery (also called sex reassignment, “bottom surgery,” a “sex change” operation, etc) has been, in recent years, more available in the US for transgender people who desire it - it’s even covered by insurance in some cases. It wasn’t always like that. In decades past, few hospitals would perform the surgery and even fewer doctors knew how or were willing to perform it. The cost was not covered by insurance. For those who could secure the funds, a trip overseas was often the answer.


End file.
